Trash Talk
by EvanescingSky
Summary: Amelia and Anya talk tough, but their follow-through is sometimes questionable.


**Florence, Italy, March 1974**

Amelia was so used to her tumultuous relationship with Anna Braginskaya that she spared only a moment in surprise when Anya passed her in a hallway, threw her into a wall, kissed her too hard, and walked away in a cloud of old lady perfume and without any explanation or a how-do-you-do.

"Hey!" By the time she shouted after Anya, it was much too late, and she could hear Miss Braginskaya's boots clicking distantly down a branch of the hall. "Crazy bitch," she muttered under her breath, hefting her duffel bag higher on her shoulder. But she didn't have time to contemplate Anya's emotional shortcomings, nor any behavior of her own that had led to the current state of affairs—she had a train to catch. The train was to get her to a plane which was to take her to Shanghai, where her next competition was. It would be nice to see Chun-yun again, but Anya wasn't going to be there, so Amelia might actually manage to behave herself, which sounded dull.

So Anya could have given her a better goodbye. But when she was getting into a taxi outside the stadium, she caught sight of Anya on the sidewalk.

"Hey you pinko bitch!" she yelled, cranking the window down. "Gonna kick your ass in Copenhagen!" Anya, recovering from her alarm at being screamed at by a passing car, flipped off the blonde sticking her head out the window. Amelia returned the gesture.

"Fuck you!" Anya cupped her hands around her mouth to make herself better heard as Amelia's taxi hit the gas.

"Damn, rude." Amelia slouched back in her seat. "Hey, you mind turning on the radio?" she asked, leaning forward to talk to the cab driver. He switched it on, playing some funky Italian pop. Things like this were precisely why her coach almost never let her out of his sight abroad, particularly in the Soviet Union or in any of the satellite states. But he couldn't always keep track of her, and she was old enough to argue for her independence. Not that she had any illusions that there, she was being watched. She was a foreigner, and moreover an American, so she was under strict orders to be on her best behavior.

Anna Dmitrovna Braginskaya aside, she thought she did quite well.

At the airport, she had enough time to stuff some coins into a payphone and make a call home.

"Hey mom. Off to Shanghai. Yeah, I won for my bracket. No, nothing else to report. Yeah, Braginskaya was there. Crazy as always. How's Buster? How's Madeline? Is she there? No? How's dad? Did he fix that wonky tire on my bike? He promised he would. Tell Madeline she can't borrow my clothes. Last time I found a maple syrup stain on my sweater. The white one, from grandma. Well, tell her she can't. Will you put Buster on? No? I'll send a postcard from China. Love you. Bye!"

Calls back home were far too expensive to carry on for long, so she really only used them for the most basic catch-up since departing America. When she was done talking to mom, she bought herself a coffee with the remaining money, and settled down in her terminal to wait.

 **Copenhagen, Denmark, May 1974**

"Hey, pig." Anya bumped Amelia's shoulder hard from behind. Amelia jerked her head around, eyes blazing, cooling only slightly when she saw who it was. Anya stared her down with a hard look. "I want to see you later. You and I have business." Her silvery blonde hair was pulled back in an impossibly tight bun, sharpening the already severe lines of her forehead and eyes, softened only by the roundness of her jaw. She hissed out the word 'business', and Amelia squinted up at her, ballerina buns bobbing indignantly as she bounced up on the balls of her feet.

"Yeah? Well fucking count on it then," she growled. The smell of sweat and cheap lotion wafted off her competition, and she could see where Anya's leotard dug into her shoulders. "Just don't fuck around on the floor, cause I'm gonna wipe you with it." Anya gazed down her hawkish nose at Amelia, and curled her lip.

"We'll see, Jones."

"Yeah, damn straight we will!"

Amelia threw everything she had into her bar routine that day—she was flying, she could feel it. It was the best part about the bars—when you did it right, it felt like defying gravity, sailing through the air, spinning this way and that, twirling and leaping, like a dance, without ever touching the floor. Music rocked through her mind, the melody unbroken as she swung from bar to bar, throwing her legs up, twisting herself about.

 _I am the best_ , she screamed in triumph, _I am Miss America!_

When she threw herself from the bars and hit the mat, she knew her coach couldn't whine—she had given it her all, no question about it. Nothing was distracting her today, not home or stress or even Anya "Thighs That Could Crush a Skull" Braginskaya. She flung her arms up, held her pose, and then pranced off the mat, chest heaving, beads of sweat rolling down her neck. Coach Reyes was there with a bottle of water and a few encouraging words.

She rose up out of her seat again when Anya stepped onto the floor, and only sat down again when the Russian began her routine. Anya was good, but Amelia had been on fire. The longer Anya's routine went on, the less Amelia breathed, until she was entirely still, completely rigid, stone, by the time Anya's feet hit the mat.

"I won," she breathed.

"Don't count your chickens," said Coach Reyes, which he told her frequently when she got ahead of herself. Amelia was, by his view, perpetually "counting her chickens before they hatched".

"I won," she said more quietly, to herself.

And she had. However, she and Anya both qualified to move forward thus far, which doubly pleased her. The best competitions were the ones she got to face off against Anya—otherwise, it would be so terribly uneventful! No one else provided the same level of competition, and no one else got her _fire_ up the same way. There was just something about Braginskaya that made her want to kick ass. Preferably _her_ ass, but Coach Reyes would tan her hide if he heard she'd actually gotten into a fight with her competition. Sure, there had been _scuffles_ before, but nothing major—and anything that bordered was not something either coach had been aware of. Amelia was pretty sure Anya's coach would dice her up and serve her with a side of borscht if she got caught duking it out with one of the Americans.

After comp, she was itching to get out. Reyes asked if she wanted to shower and collect herself before they left: she did not. She was wired, she said, wanted to get back to the hotel and start thinking about her balance beam routine for the next day.

"No parties," Reyes warned her, as he usually did.

"No parties," she promised, putting a hand over her heart. "I've never had a sip of bourbon in my life." Reyes snorted, and shook his head, and got them back to the hotel. Amelia jetted up to the sixteenth floor, where she knew Anya and her fellow gymnast Tatiana were staying, but it occurred to her, ambling around with her duffel bag still hanging stupidly off one shoulder, that she had no idea _which_ room. "Well, fuck me." She wandered around for at least ten minutes, looking like a dipshit moron, before she heard some sharp voices in something that was definitely not English, and definitely not Danish.

 _Onward, Watson!_ She meandered over, and sure enough, Anya was in the process of kicking Tatiana out of the room. When the dark-haired Russian saw Amelia approaching with the typical dumb look on her dumb face, she snarled, and Amelia was pretty sure she heard something like the Russian equivalent of "whore".

"Good to see you too, Tats," she said in Russian as a curtain of black hair and spears of sharp eyeliner blew past her, bumping over her shoulder. Jaw jutting defiantly, she slid her bag off her shoulder, holding it just barely off the ground. "And you, pinko."

"Dog," Anya drawled in response, folding her arms. "I have been waiting."

"Well I was busy signing autographs, you know," Amelia replied. Anya snorted.

"Traffic tickets don't count as autographs," she said.

"Someone's feeling the agony of defeat," Amelia said at last, a cocky grin hitching itself on her face.

"Not _defeat_ ," Anya said sharply. "We are both set to advance."

"Sure, sure. But my score was higher." Anya's right hand curled into a fist, and Amelia tensed for it to come at her.

"You want to fight?" Anya demanded, her voice a low growl. "Come here, piggy. Let's fight."

"Thought you'd never ask, darlin'." Amelia came forward and Anya afforded her just enough space to step over the threshold so the door could be shut behind her. This was for the sole purpose of Anya slamming her up against it with a biting kiss, but she was foiled by their failure to ensure the door clicked shut—it swung wide open, whacking against the wall and sending Amelia spilling onto her ass in the hallway. "Fuck! Goddamit Anya!"

Anya cackled and didn't even bother to offer her a hand up, the fucking ass. Amelia stomped back in and shut the door firmly, shoving Anya further into the room for more space. Then she grabbed the collar of Anya's sweater and dragged her down into another kiss, and Anya obliged her (finally!) by putting her against the wall. Amelia's back arched forward, and she could tell from the taste of Anya's mouth she'd had at least a swig of vodka before Amelia had arrived.

Anya's hands ran down her side, and seized hold of her muscular ass, pulling Amelia's hips against hers. Amelia groaned into their kiss, her fingers knotting up in Anya's loose collar. Anya breathed something too soft for Amelia to catch, and slotted one knee between Amelia's legs. Anya's thigh, thick and tight with all her training, was too tempting to press against, heat began to burn in Amelia's loins. Anya choked back a moan, and grabbed hold of the underside of Amelia's legs to lift her off her feet, pinning her more effectively to the wall.

"Oh, baby," Amelia breathed, wrapping her legs firmly around Anya's solid waist. "You make me real fucking gone."

"Enough talking." There was a dark flush in Anya's pale cheeks, and she smashed her lips against Amelia's with a shocking lack of grace, matched only by Amelia's own talentless return. Neither of them was willing to admit their lack of experience, and neither of them was experienced enough to guess the truth. Anyway, Amelia wasn't complaining—as far as she was concerned, Anya's too-rough kissing was lightyears past boys drunkenly grabbing at her breasts or ass and trying to stick their tongues down her throat.

"Fuck," she grunted against Anya's lips, feeling the Russian press and rub her hips against Amelia's pelvis. Anya's hair had been let down from the bun she wore it in for comp and training, and Amelia reached behind her to grab her hair and pull. At first she thought she was getting no reaction, but then Anya pulled her away from the wall, and carried her a few steps to throw her down on one of the beds, eliciting another grunt. "Hey…where's your handler?" she asked, sitting up. One of the bands precariously wrapped around her ballerina buns had popped off—no chance she'd see that again.

"Next door," Anya replied. "Must be quiet." Amelia shrugged off her "Team USA" jacket, under which she was still wearing her leotard. Anya rested a knee against the end of the bed and reached out, with a shadow of hesitance, to the shoulders of Amelia's leotard. Amelia sat still, her breath caught in her chest, as Anya's fingers traced over her shoulder. It wasn't that Anya had never seen her undressed before—they had seen each other plenty in the locker room—but Anya had never taken them off for her. Suddenly unable to bear the awkward wait, Amelia jerked both sleeves down, baring her chest.

Anya's eyes raked over her and her hand drifted down to touch Amelia's breast, and Amelia held her breath, waiting for her to squeeze it too hard, but she didn't. She sat down on the bed and Amelia, quite sure she was somehow drunk even without the alcohol, swung herself immediately into Anya's lap and caught her lips to save them the agony of conversation.

"Hey," she breathed, squeezing Anya's thighs with her own, "where's your vodka?"

"Don't have—"

"Shut up, you liar. I can taste it. Share." Rolling her eyes, Anya pushed Amelia off her lap and reached down to the lower shelf of the bedside table, withdrawing an open bottle, which she passed to Amelia. She took a swig and gagged, coughing. Anya smirked, until Amelia grabbed at the waistband of her black slacks. Clumsily, Anya grabbed the back of her head to pull Amelia into a kiss, momentarily halting her advance, and they fell back on the bed in a haphazard heap.

"You smell like sweat," Anya panted, her hand going for Amelia's pliable breast again.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a pig." Amelia burrowed her face into the crook of Anya's neck, one of her hands caressing Anya's inner thigh.

"No…it's good." Amelia lifted her head, surprise sparkling in her eyes—Anya could swear they were cornflower blue.

"Good?"

"Good," Anya snapped in a low voice, jerking Amelia down into another kiss to hide the flush in her cheeks.

"Ah, fuck," Amelia groaned lowly. Her hands trembled a touch as she pushed the hem of Anya's sweater up and placed a few kisses on her stomach. She could feel Anya tensed, and prepared herself for doubt or a mocking remark, but nothing came, so she continued, and her hands were gentler, this time, when she reached for Anya's slacks.

Beneath the pressed black fabric, Anya wore flower-patterned panties, and Amelia's heartbeat was wild in her chest as she touched the tiny bow below Anya's bellybutton. Anya shivered, and when Amelia glanced up, she saw the same wide-eyed, red-cheeked expression she was wearing reflected back at her. Anya squirmed a little on the bed, and when Amelia traced her fingers over that flower pattern, she could feel the dampness. _God,_ it sent thrills from her thighs to her throat, and she let out a shuddering breath.

"I, um…Oh fuck it." She swore in Russian and dove in to kiss Anya again, grinding against her hips. Anya dug her fingers into Amelia's hair and pulled the American down on top of her, her legs winding around Amelia's. She could feel the powerful muscles flex in Amelia's calves and thighs as she moved, and she gasped into the kiss when Amelia shifted and her knee pressed between Anya's legs.

"Just do it," she pleaded softly, fingers tight in Amelia's thick, golden waves. "Just do it."

"Yeah," Amelia replied breathlessly. "Yeah." Anya helped her pull the flower panties off and discard them so Amelia could properly get down to business. She burrowed down between Anya's knees, all atremble, and traced her fingers over Anya's inner thigh to give herself time to think, time to breathe—and Anya waited, waited for something, anything, unable to imagine Amelia actually touching here there, and—

"I can't!" she burst out. She pulled back, sat on her heels, and covered her face. "I can't do it!"

Anya propped herself up with her hand, stared in baffled disappointment at this unexpected turn of events.

"Fuck. I'm sorry. Shit. I thought I could—ugh. I'm such a wuss." Amelia rubbed at her face, but did not lower her hands. "I've never—I'm not—I'm just a virgin, okay? I thought I could do this. Shit. I'm sorry, Anya." Anya blinked, and shivered—with Amelia not blanketed over her, the room did not feel nearly as warm, and she was quite exposed.

"You don't want to—?"

"Yes! No? I mean—I do—but I just—I don't know." Amelia wrung her hands and pulled anxiously at her hair as she smoothed it down from her buns. "Too…too fast? God, I'm sorry. I've just fucked up, it's nothing new. Ugh. You're…I mean, you're…" Amelia waved at Anya's half-naked form, and her cheeks alight with a florid glow. "Fuck. Hot. It's just I…I don't know what I'm doing!"

"It's fine!" Anya said too loudly, trying to pull her sweater down further than it was meant to go. "It's fine. Totally fine. Completely fine. Fine, fine, fine!" Where in the blazes had Amelia put her panties?

"Oh, no," Amelia groaned, covering her face again. "Shit!" Anya got off the bed to grab her underwear and her pants.

"Listen, I—" Anya began, softened her voice, and tried again. "I would not—do not—want you to…do things you are not ready for." She twisted the hem of her slacks as they dangled from her hands. "I…have not done this before either," she confessed.

"No?" Amelia looked up at her with wide, slightly glassy eyes. Was there a worse humiliation than going to fuck your rival only to realize you didn't really have the guts to do it?

"No," Anya said, not looking at her, holding the pants up as a shield.

"Oh! I thought—I don't know. I don't know what I thought. Hey I…I'm really sorry, though," she said, looking miserably at her competition. "I didn't meant to like…wind you up and drop you." Anya shook her head, her curtain of silvery hair dancing.

"I don't…would not want...to _make_ you do anything," she insisted. "Please. It…should not be like that." Amelia just looked at her like a deflated birthday balloon, and then off at the wall, and then she hastily got up and started pulling her leotard up again.

"Look, I'll just go. Shit. You kicked Tatiana out for nothing."

"Not for nothing!" Anya interjected immediately. "There was…everything else." Amelia was gathering her coat from where it hung off the corner of the bed and zipping it up to her throat. She hurried to the door to get her shoes on, and Anya moved from wringing her pants hem to twisting her fingers violently together. "Wait!" Amelia looked back at her with terrified puppy eyes, and Anya had a vague moment to be surprised her tough girl façade dropped so easily. "There's, ah—the vodka. To finish. You should stay!"

"Huh?" Amelia bit her lip, choking back _Aren't you mad? Disappointed?_ "I mean, I…"

"Unless your coach is expecting you," Anya added hastily. "Then you can get lost."

"Nah, I told him I was going to bed." One of Amelia's sneakers hung limply from her hand.

"Well, do what you want." Anya turned sharply away and went to grab the bottle to have a drink herself. She needed it.

Slowly, Amelia put her shoe down and pried the other one off.

"I…could have a drink," she offered, almost sheepishly. Anya _almost_ smiled, and sat down on the bed.

"Well come on then. It shouldn't take long—I know you will be blacked out after three sips."

"Will not!" Amelia climbed onto the bed and reached for the vodka bottle. "You cranky bitch, it's not worth bragging about that it takes a whole bottle of vodka before you get tipsy. Must be why your leotards are always so rachet, spending all your money on Smirnoff."

"Excuse me?"

"Janky. Crap. Ugly, cheap," Amelia offered up some alternatives. Anya reached over and yanked on Amelia's hair without any care for not _balding_ her, and shoved her down on the mattress to take the vodka back.

"Bitch," she said. "Yours are…" She searched for a word in English, and then settled for "garish" in Russian.

" _What_? _"_

"Flashy!" Anya declared, remembering what she wanted to say. "Annoying." Amelia pinched her knee viciously, and they wrestled across the bed, stopping only at the risk of slopping the entire bottle of vodka on Anya's mattress.

When Amelia was slipping out just under two hours later, she ran into Tatiana at the door. The dark-haired woman curled her lip again, like Amelia was a mangy mutt that kept hanging around her front stoop.

"Heyyyy Tatiana," she said with a sloppy grin.

"You have a bruise," Tatiana said, touching her own face, on her jaw.

"Ah? Fuck." Amelia touched the place where Anya had knocked her face (unintentionally, she thought) unto the headboard. Their roughhousing did occasionally get out of hand... "Well have a good night," she said too happily, with that same grin, waving as she stumbled into the hall, hefting her duffel bag onto her shoulder.

In the hotel room, Anya was on her bed, cradling the empty bottle like spooning a lover.

"You two are really fucking hopeless," Tatiana said. Anya sighed and pressed her face into the pillow to hide the smile that was plastered to her face. When she closed her eyes, she dreamed of sunny California beaches and drop-top convertibles in red, and the taste of Coca-Cola. And of course, kicking Jones' ass in '76.


End file.
